Toccata
by ile-joyeuse
Summary: What goes better together than cold and dark?


**Toccata**

_Rise of the Guardians, fanfiction_

**Summary: **

What goes together better than cold and dark?

**Warning:** Yaoi.

**Setting:** Alternate Universe, present-day Paris.

**Disclaimer: **DreamWorks, William Joyce.

* * *

**Toccata**

**Note:**

Alternate Universe, present-day Paris. Jackson Overland Frost is a 19-year-old philosophy student from America who also works as a trombonist in a jazz band he formed with fellow overseas students.

_For Alicja._

* * *

"Mate, if I were you, I'd change my major," Aster finished the last piece of cold pizza, tossed the box, opened a new bottle of mineral water.

He continued after a long sip: "No offense, but most of philosophy graduates are jobless."

Jack finished his beer then crushed the can under his sneakers. Frankly, he hated the eerie creaking sound as much as Sandy, who always hissed sharply, but it had since long became his habit and finishing a beer without crushing the can made him feel as if something was missing.

"Hey man, one per cent of chance is a still a chance. Maybe someday…"

"_Someday,"_ Tooth parroted jokingly.

"Aster's right, Jack," Sandy mumbled while tidying his handwritten chord notes atop the piano, stuffed it inside his old-fashioned suitcase.

"Yeah, Jack," Tooth chimed in. "Maybe they'll dismiss your recordings but these days, who cares about recording sales unless you're a pop star? Your recordings will only form thirty five per cent or so of your income. The rest you get from live shows! With your kind of face, there will be plenty of people to worship you. From then on play 'dancer' like all politicians—act like you're some kind of god. "

"Really, just play with their perceptions," Tooth added after some time. "It's psychologically proven that beautiful people get more attentions and affections. Easy career path ahead, Jack."

Jack laughed.

"Thanks, I'll think of your suggestions once I play like Curtis Fuller," he replied with a hint of sarcasm, but no one realized.

* * *

A week before Prof. Gauchet died in an airplane accident, he plastered a torn page of a notebook written in large fonts: _"Je ne retournerai jamais."_ on his desk. The _directeur_ had a hard time finding a replacement when all of a sudden he remembered Prof. Pitchiner, who three months ago came as a guest lecturer. It was a hard negotiation, yet he couldn't picture any other as qualified.

"…_En ce qui concerne, les œuvres musicales n'ont pas des rélations avec ses compositeurs et ceux qui entendent. Elles sont separés aussi des performances et des partitions. Cela déjà été conclut donc que la musique est placé entre des catégories 'réel' et 'iréel'." __*****_**Music falls between the categories of 'real' and 'unreal'**

"_Mais les interprétations sont fondées aux partitions, non?"_ Jack asked hesitantly. ***But aren't the interpretations based on the scores?**

"_Essentiellement non,"_ Prof. Pitchiner answered with a smile. "_Les œuvres musicales et les interprétations sont originées sur l'acte de la creativité des compositeurs et des musiciens…" __*****_**Interpretations roots on the creativity of the composers and the musicians**

*)The class was studying Roman Ingarden's philosophy on aesthetics.

Prof. Pitchiner constantly put people at edge. His personality at large resembled tightly-sealed iron gates; if the professor had gone those processes like the others, they had since long turned into old dreams. He was always seen in black, too, which seemed to add to the impression.

The afternoon of his arrival from Kraków, an antique Steinway upright was delivered to his office. Soon, Bach or Brahms could be heard echoing through the corridors near his office every morning and late afternoon.

Jack and the old librarian Madame de R. were among the many admirers of his music. The _directeur_ had even asked him personally to play the entire opus 116 _Fantaisie _before the entire committee. But the professor refused, saying that he would never be able to "share his blood" with so many.

* * *

A month later, the professor was playing the _toccata_ from the sixth Partita when Jack passed by his office. The professor meant to make it sound like a dance danced by people under possession of nightmare spirits, instead the harmony struck Jack like waves that tossed him around, ripping him from inside. After having spent some time to gather his courage, Jack finally knocked on the door. It took a while before the professor opened it.

"Jackson."

"_Je vous dérange?" _***Do I disturb you?**

"_Mais non."_

The professor smiled.

"You have something to ask?"

His smile disarmed Jack, whom had always thought that the professor was cold, as he was during classes. Besides, he also found the accent charming.

"No, just…"

He then led Jack into his office then the door silently. For a moment Jack thought he saw a hint of smile on the professor's face, but it faded away too quickly for him to be sure.

"Very late in the afternoon at the day of your arrival... you were playing a piece," Jack bit his lower lip. His palms turned cold.

He took a deep breath, then continued: "I really liked it... I want to hear it again if you don't mind."

"Describe it."

"Like waves... It eventually calmed down somewhere in the middle—err, no, near the end—then there was happier parts, but very short…" Jack rubbed the top of his head using his palm, messing his hair. "I'm sorry, that's about my best description..."

The professor walked towards the piano then sat on the stool. His long, bony fingers caressing the surface sensually as he opened the fallboard; it was as if the piano was an extension of his body. After a while, he started playing the _toccata_ Jack heard from that day.

* * *

"So, you're in a jazz band. What do you play?"

"The trombone," Jack answered with a smile. "It doesn't attract as much as the piano or the sax, but—"

"The trombone is really important," the professor interjected. "The groups of Gillespie, Coltrane, Davis, and Basie aren't complete without Al Grey or Curtis Fuller."

Jack laughed nervously.

"Now, tell me more about you."

"Me? I'm sure there's nothing interesting that you want to know, Jackson."

"You're from Kraków, right? I've always wanted to go there."

The professor knitted his fingers together.

"It is a fascinating city, like in the pictures."

Jack smiled.

"How is it in the evening?"

"_Vraiment charmante,_" the professor took a cigar from a box on the coffee table—"Mind if I smoke?"

"_Pas problème."_

After a puff, he professor continued: "The sky is dyed with many colors until it looks almost transparent. But unlike here, the city below doesn't reflect the sky. The ancient buildings are like more like perfectly-lit décors on a stage, waiting for the actors to come." His gestures struck Jack as charming.

"But there is another city which is—for me personally—more attractive during nightfall."

Jack leaned closer.

"Wrocław, where I was born," said the professor.

"You can almost imagine ghosts looming restlessly in the streets. The streets are like tangled snakes, with many mysterious turns that seem to lead to an underground dungeon. When I was a boy, I always took a walk after midnight."

"You make it sound really charming."

The professor loosened his face into a smile then leaned back on the sofa.

"Everything that has anything to do with fear is charming."

After a while: "Like the fear you often get on stage—"

"I play to please myself, so—" Jack interjected.

The professor closed the fallboard of the piano then looked at Jack.

"… so I'm never afraid on stage," Jack continued nervously.

"_Pardonnez-moi, Jackson...Vos points sont vraiment contradictoires avec les dernières,"_ he leaned even closer. ***Your points contradict the ones you've said before**

"How is it possible to please yourself when you cannot even listen to yourself?"

"It is not a question of being abandoned, but you have been adapting to the role of the unseen. For the same reason you abandon yourself. You appreciate other values but significance."

Jack sunk deeper into the sofa. Of course he chose not to take the value of significance, since he never believed that he was actually believed in. He always envied the praises, solo requests, and free drinks given to Sandy, held the most important spot in the band.

Meanwhile, so far only very few had treated him drinks, or came onstage to shake his hands, even fewer asked for a solo showdown.

"I'm more of the 'corner type'," Jack tried dismissing the statement jokingly, although as a matter of fact, he wanted more of the professor's attention.

"Jackson, they _never_ hide you in the shade," said the professor, realizing Jack's real intention.

"_Mon petit, vous avez trop de crainte..." _The professor reached out to touch Jack's chin.

* * *

"_Mon petit, vous avez trop de crainte..." __*****_**You have too much fear**

Jack stared deeper into the professor's eyes, as if making sure, upon seeing himself reflected there, that he was still intact. When the professor finally released his face, he smiled. It was very laid-back, as if nothing had happened before.

"_Vous êtes jeune, Jackson, c'est la problème,"_ the tone of the voice, too, carried no reminiscence of what had happened before. "Young people think that they are capable of everything, but they have no idea that they're following manifestations of fear in their every action and thought."

A feeling of disgust rose in Jack.

"Then you have the same weakness! If we keep the fear as young people then, at your age—"

"Exactly!" The professor smiled.

After a while, he continued: "Now you see, the best thing you can do about fear is to take it away from yourself then instill in others. That is exactly what you have to do. It is like energy. You can't banish energy, _hein_? You can only transform it. When you listened to me that day, at the same time I must've had inspired fear in you, which was precisely why you were attracted to it. Fear is a strong element. Almost everything in the world finds root in it."

Jack frowned.

"That is the fairness of it all, Jackson. Like love being inseparable from the fear of loss, or a person's drive being inseparable from the fear of running out of time, we are bound to fear. Without the presence of fear, everyone would've killed themselves."

"Then I want _you_ to _free_ me."

The professor said nothing in reply.

"You can, right?" Jack looked at the professor piercingly. "Make me like you!"

* * *

The professor grabbed Jack's shoulders firmly then kissed his lips. Soon the kiss reached its peak intensity, and Jack bit the professor's lower lip until it bled then stuck out his tongue for the professor to suck. As the saltiness of blood rolled into his mouth, Jack realized that it was his long-kept desire taking form.

After the kiss, Jack intuitively undressed himself then laid himself on the sofa. The professor took some time to examine the young body. Jack had seen this expression so many times before, because it was exactly how the professor looked when he played the piano.

"You have such lovely body, Jackson," the professor said in low voice then traced Jack's pinkish nipples, his jutting ribs, his sunken stomach, his penis, the base of his legs, down to his small feet using his moist lips. Jack was moaning the whole time.

"_Tais-toi!"_

"Please… I can't…" Jack squirmed, clenching his hands. His hard-on was comfortable at first, but now it was at the brink of being painful. Besides, he couldn't simply digest the thought to cum on the professor's face—it would be too disrespectful. When the stuggle got too tough, he reached out touch his penis, hoping he could ease the building pain.

"Don't move."

"Please…" Jack said amid the racing breaths.

The professor pretended not to hear. His lips hungrily traced each inch of the tense body; less for the hunger for Jack as a person than the desire to be reborn in his young skin.

"Please…"

It took a long time until the professor finally took Jack's hard penis into his mouth. Little by little, the pain ceased and pleasure took place. The professor's mouth skillfully teased the shaft, feeling the softness with his tongue then teased the tip in small circular movements. Pleasure ripped Jack's body like a succession of waves. He came violently in the professor's mouth.

Watching the professor cleaning his lips from the traces of semen struck Jack with a sense of guilt and pleasure.

"Sorry..."

The professor smiled. His lips and neck glistened from the semen.

"Now turn around."

The professor quickly undressed himself, tossed his clothes on the floor, then climbed atop Jack on the sofa. Jack could hear the professor's racing breaths and his firm hands grabbing his hips. He groaned when he felt the professor's penis slowly penetrating his ass.

"I said, silence!"

When the penis went in deeper, Jack groaned even louder. It was impossible for him to remain silent; the penetration was extremely painful.

"Silence, Jackson!"

Jack groaned again. This time, the professor lost his patience. With all might he forced his huge penis into the young man's ass—this time he'd surely make the young man learn all necessary lessons about pleasure. The harder the professor rammed, the stronger the waves that swept through his young body. After several thrusts, Jack finally understood the real pleasure the professor wanted him to know.

Jack closed his eyes. In his mind, he was following in a long alleyway which seemed to has no end. As he walked, he realized that the darkness charmed him in a way he had never known before.

_What goes together better than cold and dark?_

5/10/2013 10:00:00 PM

* * *

**Author's Note:**

An étude on guided character development. Recently I've been rewatching (and rewatching, and rewatching!) RoTG again so yeah… why not start with fanfictions?

To everyone else, whether you're just dropping by to secretly save this to your hard disk, or actually reading, reviewing, even adding this story to favorite… Thank you! x

Kamila


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